Disintegration
by Her Name Is Erika
Summary: The disintegration of one relationship and the evolution of another witnessed through another's eyes. VinceLola. ChaseLola.


**A/N: Here's The Fame, my eighty-first story/oneshot.**

**Disclaimer: Zoey 101 and the video that inspired this oneshot aren't mine. **

* * *

**Disintegration**

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

"How are you feeling today, Dylan?"

It's a cycle. It's repetitive, and it's redundant. But he needs a psychologist. He needs therapy because therapists seem to be associated with the Hollywood scene. But his therapist is just Kayla, looking at him with clear expectancy, green eyes sparkling and lips pulled into a gentle smile. Her voice is soft, as she gently pats his hand.

"I want you to feel safe. You can talk when you're ready."

Dylan Blake sighs, because everything is painfully obvious.

"Kayla, I don't want to talk today," he says, shortly. Why talk about what is unraveling right in front of him? He offers a small smile that is actually genuine for once. It's not used as a mechanism to suppress his complete utter dislike for the paparazzi, while their camera flashes in a blinding flurry. Dylan smiles so hard his jaw almost cramps, but it's all a damn façade.

His mother is an actress, and on the brink of divorce with his NFLer father.

"That's perfectly fine," the psychologist complies, folding her hands neatly in front of her. She raises a cautionary eyebrow as the nearly six-foot-one sixteen year old stands up. "But just because you're dating my daughter, that doesn't mean you still can't come talk to me."

"I know. You're my therapist – "

"No," Kayla shakes her head, cutting him off gently. "I mean that as a friend."

"Thank you," Dylan replies, and surprises the psychologist when he hugs her lightly, and releases her before he says one last goodbye and allows the door to close behind him.

* * *

Dylan always wondered how it would feel like to have a younger sibling.

He was excited at the prospect of having a little someone to look up to him, someone who could regard him as something more and he could love this little person in return.

When he was twelve, he walked in from school and saw the smile of his mother's face, so vibrant and sparkly like she had won another Oscar, and the world actually appreciated her work and her accomplishments even though she wasn't at home.

Dylan found out he was going to be a big brother, and soon he smiled too, with excitement and what could have been.

"Is that great, honey?"

"Yeah," Dylan returned his mother's hug as she stroked his dark hair lightly. He offered his mother a smile, dimples in his cheeks. "I'm happy."

Dylan watches his mother frown slightly, "I wish I could say the same for your dad, though."

An alarm went off in his young brain, but he shook it off and dismissed it.

That night, Vince came home from one of his away games and through the thin walls, he heard his parenting arguing. Their voices got louder and louder, and curiosity got the better of him. His dad's voice sounded different, almost not the same guy that he had run to, before strong arms picked him up.

"Vince, you're drunk!"

"And you tell me you're a month and a half pregnant just now? Sounds a little suspicious to me, Lola!"

"_How_ could you even suggest that?"

"I don't know," Dylan heard his father's voice with a sarcastic twinge. "You tell me. You're so busy working on this 'movie' with Chase all the time, so you tell me what's been going on!"

"Because he's the screenwriter," Dylan heard Lola scream in justified defense. "Logan's directing the whole thing, so does that mean I'm sleeping with him too?! He's married to Quinn if you get that through your head! This baby _is_ – "

Dylan pushed the master bedroom door wide enough to hear a loud, echoing smack and a gasp.

The sight of his mother holding her cheek with her eyes wide as saucers, lined with tears waiting to run their natural course, caught his eye in direct side view.

He ran.

* * *

The elevator music doesn't drown out the ramifications of that night.

That night, Dylan looses any respect he has for his father, and a week later after complaining of light to moderate cramping, he loses his sibling due to something called a "spontaneous ejection".

The elevator makes Dylan feel slightly claustrophobic – maybe it's the reflective mirrors on all four sides, or the non-descript instrumental music that gives off the illusion of playing from all four corners of the elevator as it makes the downward descent to the lobby. He sighs, and puts his hands deep inside in the pockets of his jeans, anger bubbling up inside of him.

Every day, he wonders how he could be in the same gene pool as someone like Vince Blake. Dylan wonders how the hell he could have the same chromosomes, same DNA as someone like him. His thoughts stop spinning when the elevator dings and the elevator door opens and familiar hazel eyes are staring up at him.

"Dylan!" Amanda, his girlfriend of nine months, greets cheerily when she bumps into him in the furnished lobby. The carpet is a dark burgundy with a beige loveseat, two indoor trees at each side of the door and a wooden bench that bears a close resemblance to a park bench. It won't surprise him if it comes from Central Park in New York.

God, he _misses_ New York terribly.

"Hey," he smiles gently at the blonde, and she takes his hand in hers. She's here because she takes over the reception desk for mother's practice when Louise can't. Today is one of those days.

"So, how'd the session with my mom go? Any breakthroughs, or did she just drive you crazy with subtlety?"

Dylan frowns, lightly, go over to sit on the bench while Amanda sees the sadness in his eyes and goes over to sit with her boyfriend. Concern floods her features, and Dylan feels her gently cradle his face in the concerned way that makes him smile. Amanda is just so loving, and so caring. She reminds him so much if his mother in that aspect. He sighs, and shakes his head in the no motion. Sometimes, Dylan wonders if he drives to Kayla's for the sake of registered habit. It's a loose thought in the back of his head, but it beats the uglier ones he has to fight when he's in a "quiet" state of mind.

"Nah, no breakthroughs, no deep conversation," he explains. "I just feel like there's enough for me to talk about already. The disintegration of what was a sham of a marriage and so on," Amanda watches his face darken. "I don't exactly want to tell anyone I'm related to a wife beater."

"Oh my God," she gasps, before she strokes his arm soothingly. "I can't say that I can relate. But," Amanda rests her head on his broad shoulder, before looking into a pair of brown eyes, unmistakably full of inner turmoil and presses her glossed lips against his. "I'm sorry, Dylan."

Dylan pulls her close, kissing her temple lightly, "Yeah, me too."

* * *

When he was a child, Dylan thought his dad was Superman.

He saw his father as a hero, a defender for those who couldn't defend themselves. Dylan watched his father, running and tackling his opponents effortlessly on the football field. He cheered the loudest when his dad scored the winning touchdown in most of his games.

But in recent days, Dylan laughed at his childlike naivety, and concluded that his father was just Doomsday in disguise.

* * *

His cell phone's been buzzing all day, he thinks as soon as Dylan sees the name of his street. In a few minutes, he'll come upon his house and pray his mother is home.

Dylan yawns, as he parks into the driveway of the house, he and his mother now inhabit.

For the first time, he's not being blinded or bombarded by the buzzing press. It's not like it's unexpected, since he's going to be exactly where both of his parents are – not separated and estranged from each other with a son who feels like he's in a constant tug-of-war – but in the spotlight where the curtain stay open longer than it should sometimes. Sliding the key out of the ignition, he steps out of the passenger side of the deep red coloured car, its windows tainted. There's a sense of gratitude on his part. Either the paparazzi realizes how prying and annoying they really are or they're psychic and pick up the "don't-cross-me-with-the-camera-or-I'll-choke-you-with-your-neckstrap" vibe Dylan's sending out.

Lola's parked car sits idly so she must be home from going over the screenplay of another movie with Chase. It's a house along the beach that has the most beautiful view. Inside the house, the walls look bare. Like everything has been stripped from the ivory coloured walls.

His deep voice bounces off the walls, producing an echo.

"Mom, you hidin' or what?"

"Yeah, I'm hiding!" Lola answers in a sing-song voice, laughter in her voice. She comes out of the kitchen, leaving a mess of papers behind on the island counter. He notes that his mother has a new light to her face, tanned skin that is glowing. Her eyes are warm. Either Lola had an awesome time with Chase, Dylan concludes with quick afterthought, or she was excited to see him after just being away from home for three hours.

Chase is a good guy, and Dylan's taken a liking to his fourteen-year-old daughter, Emily.

"Hey Mom," his arms go around his mother's small waist in a hug while her arms go around his neck. That's when he realizes that he's at least two massive growth spurts in two summers. It's random but whatever. Lola kisses his cheek and pulls away. "Why so smiley?"

"No reason."

He smirks, playfully, arm around her shoulder as they walk into the kitchen, "Mom, you're a terrible liar."

"Lying's just like acting. But I lie for entertainment. Same thing, honey."

"Yes, but you've been hanging out with Chase a whole lot and you're newly separated," he explains, while opening the fridge. "Hung out with Amanda because she was working for her mom again."

"Aw, how is she?"

"Fine."

"And how's Kayla?" Lola questions. "Did you get somewhere today?"

"Kayla's awesome, and no, not really. Maybe next time, I guess."

He bends over, eyes scanning what he can eat, while the refrigerator makes a low humming sound and the manufactured cold air hits his face. He pictures his mom's playfully stern look and smiles faintly, while his eyes land on leftover honey garlic chicken. It's not enough, though.

"Yeah. I know. It's been nine months," she answers, and pauses biting her bottom lip. "So, this came in the mail today."

Damn. So much for the amount of honey garlic chicken he wants.

Closing the fridge and pulling his head out, he sighs as Lola shuffles through papers on the island counters. Lola hands him two sheets of paper and Dylan eyes his mother confused before he scans through a bunch of legal lingo he doesn't quite understand. There's a flurry of curved black, photocopied lines he can't quite piece together.

"What's this?"

Dylan watches his mother's cheery disposition practically melt, and makes an imaginary, invisible splattered mess on the white linoleum kitchen floor. Eyes well up with tears again.

"Mom, what are these?"

"Your father gave up custody, so now I have sole custody of you," Lola explains and the teenager's eyebrows knit in confusion and he frowns. " – but those are divorce papers. I signed them just before you came home. They'll be going to my lawyer first thing tomorrow, and then that's it."

His throat is unusually dry, "What?"

"Those are divorce papers, Dylan."

* * *

Dylan hated when people asked him what career path he wanted to take.

He found that question constricting and invasive. He was only thirteen years old after all, so Dylan found that a useless question. The answer had yet to be found, and privacy was rare and something he wanted to grasp tightly even if it was by a thread.

So, Dylan," entertainment reporter, Anne Collins, started as he walked on the red carpet of some Young Hollywood function.

"Hey Anne."

"How do you feel about the significance of this function?"

Dylan flashed the smile he was known for, "I love the animals, so I'm psyched I could come out."

"Nice. That's wonderful that young people today are being attentive to the animal shelters, and its inhabitants," the reporter turned to the camera. She smiled vibrantly, and then spoke to Dylan again. "Everyone's been wanting to know this – "

"Which is?"

"Will you be following your father to the football field or the big screen with your mother?"

Dylan merely smiled again, and gave an answer that was vague but smart-alecky all at once, "Don't worry, Anne. If I figure it out, you'll be in the loop."

When he turned fourteen, Dylan starred in his first real role as a teenager sociopath while selling all of the useless _Vince Blake_ merchandise he had amassed all his life.

His decision had been made.

* * *

"I saw him slap you, Mom. I _saw_ him hit you and make you cry."

Lola is genuinely shocked and grabs Dylan's hand, as they sit at the dining table, "What? I know you saw him do that. And I'm so sorry you did. That was the night he left, and – "

"No, I'm talking about the first time," Dylan explains, running a hand through his hair. His throat is unbelievably dry and for the next couple of days after that, he can't bear to look Vince in the eyes anymore. In the day that Vince is home, all of Dylan's awe is tossed out of the window. When Lola's eyes register shock and her features twist to match, the actress locks a gaze with her son.

"He came home from his away games against the New York Giants, and that night you were arguing. You guys were arguing, and I could hear you because let's face it, the walls in this house aren't too thick. But you were pregnant, I was going to be a big brother and I was so excited," he explains, a small bitter laugh exiting him when he backtracks. "I was going to ask Dad to go out and buy me Big Brother shirts…" he pauses, and continues, Lola hanging on to every word. "Dad accused you of having some extra marital thing with Chase, and then I heard a loud smack. I opened the bedroom door wide enough to find you holding your cheek and looking as if you would cry. I ran away but I made a promise that I'd always protect you."

"Aw, honey," the actress replies, a tear finally making her way down her cheek. "I'm touched you did that, even if you did sucker-punch him in the jaw."

"Well, last time I checked, a husband wasn't supposed to jerk his wife around. That's not cool."

Dylan doesn't know what the hell provokes him to dive in and defend his mother. Maybe it's the years of her starting to crumble under the pressure of a marriage that is undoubtedly a sham or maybe it's the sound of Lola's sobs permeating through the walls of his bedroom.

He'll admit it. He'll admit he's a Momma's Boy. He's a sixteen-year-old, six-foot-one Momma's Boy.

He's the kind of guy who likes chicken noodle soup when he's sick and a glass of ginger ale – the flat kind of ginger ale that is viewed as gross to everyone, because the gassy bubbles make his tongue hurt. He's the kind of guy that will sleep asleep when his mom sings some Spanish lullaby that is passed down the Martinez family tree branch by branch while Lola strokes his hair. He likes it when a girl plays with his hair, whether it's his mother in an attempt to get him to fall asleep or he watches a simple sunset with Amanda.

"Mom, why did you marry him at all?"

"Chase was right. He told me not to," Lola answers, with a slight sniffle when her son wipes a tear away. "He told me that way back in senior, but honestly, he wasn't all bad. He wasn't like this when we were teenagers."

"Then the steroids got to him, but I can't say that he was taking them just now. Apparently, he beat Chase, Michael, Logan, and that monotone guy who sells time shares in high school."

"Hey!" Lola slaps his bicep in admonishing, through a smile Dylan sees she's trying to hide. "Seriously, if there's one thing I don't regret from marrying your dad, it would be having you."

"And this is where the love-fest comes in," the teenager sighs, dramatically. "Oh, God, the strain of it all."

"Too late. I'm hugging you."

Dylan hugs his mother, and in mid-hug, Lola shrieks because her own son has her in a bridal carry in good humor.

Finally, he gets to hear his mother laugh.

And it gives him hope, even if it's a work in progress.

* * *

"Boys are stupid!" Emily Matthews exclaimed, when Dylan drove to her high school to pick her up. He'd volunteered to after seeing Kayla again, and the occasional Amanda – making out was imminent.

Chase had looked totally relieved and responded with a, "Dylan, you're the man of the hour right now! I'm still trying to work out parts for this thing. Your mom needs to look over this script, and I'm this close to stuffing this in Logan's mouth because he's needs to start casting by the next week, and he's been as irritating as ever – "

"Chase!" Dylan exclaimed, laughing. "Dude, do something for me. It's called breathing, and all you have to do is inhale and exhale. You're going to bust an artery if you don't relax. Tell my mom I came by to look for her while I pick up Emily."

So Dylan turned around and hopped in his car, and the timing was perfect. The school bell rang, making the students file out of the building. He would have loved to go to school, even though he liked his tutor, April. April was fun and helped him accumulate enough high school credits to go to college. Dylan's college SAT scores were great, but when presented with the opportunity to go, Dylan turned it down.

He was going to put in another three movies for two years and then put his acting job on hold to actually attend NYU for four years.

But in present time, Emily recognized his red car and with a frown and a slam of the passenger side, she made the following proclamation that the male species was confusing, frustrating and in short, stupid.

Completely and utter stupid.

"Bipolar much?"

Dylan glanced to see green eyes narrowed at him and Emily spoke, "Dude, I'm in distress. Not suffering from a split personality, so shut it, Pickle Boy."

That was an obvious play on his name, and a nickname so it stuck.

"You sure, Em, because the line between your kind of distress and bipolar is pretty thin," he joked and then grew serious as he drove down the street back to Emily's house. "But if you wanna talk, I'll listen."

Emily groaned, "That'll only make me not wanna talk, but if you must know, I skate and play flag football with this dude, Sean. He's one of my best friends, and can't hang with girls, because they're drama pointless. But anyway, everyone at school rips on us for being more than just friends, so a week ago, I told everyone to shut up unless breathing through straws is what they wanted."

"Don't you think that's a tad brutal?" Dylan asked, when they reached a stop light. The fifteen-year-old blonde fixed him with a hard stare. Her feet were crossed at the ankles on the dashboard. Dylan tried to be stern, but laughed anyway. Seriously, he hated feet on his dash. The OCD should have been to blame. "Feet off my dash, kiddo."

"Don't tell a bipolar person what to do, Dyl Pickle. You played one in a movie so you should know," the blonde quipped with a satisfied smirk when the car gained motion on the California road, lined with prominent palm trees.

"Touché."

" – so anyway," Emily continued with a sigh. "I go on this speech slash tirade about how Sean and I can't be more than friends. Ready for the punch line, because here's the joke."

Dylan didn't know if he would laugh, because her mood was the complete opposite.

"Today, he told me he does like me, as in girlfriend material. I didn't know whether to punch him and run for it or just run," Emily sighed, suppressing the blush in her face. It was a damn curse. Her dad did this with her mom until they couldn't stand being married to each other, and they split up but lived an hour away from each other and acted like they were best friends again. "I fed him this lie about reorganizing my sock drawer, and then in mid sentence, I ran."

"And judging by the blush, you're getting the feeling's mutual."

"Don't psychoanalyze me."

"Even though, I'm right, and you probably like this guy," Dylan suggested, as his hands remained on the steering wheel. Emily would be home without the next five to ten minutes. "Too bad you can't kill me, Em. If you were to attempt it, I'd lose control of the car and then where would we be?"

Emily rolled her eyes, and rested her head against the window, "It's his fault for making things all weird and awkward. Boys are stupid. End of story."

"But I'm a boy."

The blonde gave him a small smile, and lifted her head slightly, "My dad hangs with your mom, and just uses the script thing as a cover even though it's true, and going to Logan's house is fun to the max. You're like my brother, Dylan. You don't classify there. Y'know…as being stupid and such."

"I appreciate that, Emily."

"Yeah, yeah," the blonde dismissed and rested her head against the black glass again, voice sounding tired. "I'll hug you when I'm not so out of it, and wanting to crawl into a hole and possibly die."

At sixteen, Dylan Blake finally knew what it felt like to be a big brother.

* * *

He's been getting text messages from Emily, most of which consist of Chase being antsy and on the brink of bouncing off the walls, because his screenplay deadline is approaching and he has eighty pages complete when a typical screenplay is a hundred and twenty.

"Dyl, put me down! You may have hit your growth spurt, but seriously, put me down!"

"Okay, but I was going to help you and carry you upstairs to get ready for your date with Chase tonight. It's Friday, and I don't want you home moping."

"Date, what date?" Lola questions, as they go up the staircase. She's half-surprised, and half-amused that he even does that.

"The one Emily and I set up after she wore me down with text messages," he answers, shortly, before he shoots her a knowing glance with a playful smirk and nudge to match. "Poor Chase has been bouncing off the walls, and Emily's kicking him out. Therefore, we feel the best solution is that you two go on another date, and maybe, he'll kiss you longer enough for the movie to actually end."

"Why do I get the feeling you're trying to get rid of me?" Lola questions, when Dylan sets her petite frame down. Her hands are placed at her hips. "What's your angle?"

"Mom, I may be a teenage boy with raging hormones, but I have self-control. Amanda's not coming tonight, but she promised to call me after her family reunion thing," Dylan explains, with a sigh and opens the door to the bigger master bedroom. It never seems bigger, but now it does. Lola feels herself, being gently pushed into her bedroom towards the closet lined with a multitude of dresses. "And besides, Emily and I are going to chill and gorge over pizza and a movie tonight. So don't worry. You have an hour to get ready for your date with Chase, alright?"

Lola grins like a Cheshire cat, and presses the kisses all over his face, because she's overjoyed for the most part. Her eyes are all sparkling and bright, like there is life in them again.

"You're the best son ever!"

"I know."

Dylan hears his mother singing to herself happily, no doubt getting herself all dolled up and beautiful like he knows she is, and that's all Dylan wants to hear in the first place.

Yes, after Lola comes back from her date with Chase, and Emily and Dylan high-five when they see their parents hold hands and kiss longer than one goodnight kiss should take, he'll have a lot to talk about with Kayla at his next session.

* * *

**A/N: I kind of want to do a follow-up to this oneshot, but much, much later. **

**I just hope you liked it, so please give me your honest feedback and tell me what you thought. Forgive me of any errors since it's midnight and I'm actually supposed to be asleep but I wanted to finish this and beat my deadline. I hope you got the title of the oneshot as well. I had it as something else but this just fits more. **

**Anyway, goodnight.**

**Oh, and Haley, I left you a comment on your YouTube. Hope you get around to reading it. **

**Okay, I'm off to crash now. **

**-Erika**


End file.
